


All Those Little Things

by Markition



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Ben-Hassrath, Dom/sub, Dorian and his feelings, Hissrad, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:08:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,896
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2728415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Markition/pseuds/Markition
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As the Inquisition marches onward, Dorian finds himself becoming dangerously attached to the Iron Bull's attention. What did he do to get himself into this mess? And what will happen when the Bull's past finally catches up to them? Dorian seems to be the only one worried about Ben-Hassrath involvement, and that terrifies him. The Bull's title was Hissrad for a reason.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. He Slept like the Dead

**Author's Note:**

> Sort of a sequel to my other piece, "Let them Talk." The chapters of this piece are mostly stand-alone, and there will be lengths of time between each one. I will follow the relationship between Dorian and Bull as it grows, and explore the skeletons they both have in their closets. 
> 
> There WILL be explicit chapters later, with strong dom/sub dynamic.

Dorian had a problem. This problem was _huge_ , nearly nine feet tall, in fact, with obscenely vast horns and washboard abs. Definitely not what Dorian would call handsome, he’d picked up too many scars for the mage’s tastes, but there was no missing the strength there, the power in even the smallest things he did. The Iron Bull was a force to be reckoned with, in bed and on the battlefield.

For a long time, Dorian wrote him off as a muscle-brained brute. He was a good meat shield for the more intelligent, craftier fighters--like the mages. Iron Bull was a Qunari, an animal. He was dumb by definition. Dorian dismissed him, and the matter was settled. Nice and clean and in line with everything he thought he knew about the world.

Dorian was quick to call judgements, but he wasn’t blind. It didn’t take long for him to start seeing the sort of mannerisms that didn’t fit in with his view of the Iron Bull. It didn’t take long for him to get wrapped up in that man’s bed, and then it was downhill from there. That one drunken night that he _still_ regretted, weeks later. If he’d just decided to not get shitfaced that night, he wouldn’t have had to accept the fact that Iron Bull was hot, that he was amazing in bed and that Dorian had _other_ desires that he’d ignored his entire life. Beyond just being gay. Desires that Bull had picked right up on like a damn blood hound and hadn’t hesitated to explore.

A Ben-Hassrath agent. That was the first thing Dorian didn’t get right. Yes, Bull was a Qunari warrior with all his blood rage and battlefield fury. But he was something much more twisted than that, beneath his tough guy shell. It was in the absolute bone deep chill in his one good eye, the way he seemed to know exactly what to say in any situation. A dumb brute would’ve said the first thing that came to mind, honest and true. Bull sometimes said the truth, sometimes said what he knew you wanted to hear. Sometimes he thought those two were one in the same.

Bull didn’t _lie_ , per say, although Dorian abided by that only because he’d never caught Bull in one before. But he was a _fucking terrifying actor_. Dorian knew, he’d seen it, he didn’t know when or how but he could taste Bull’s strategies like smoke on the air. He said one thing, he meant another, but he would never say it outright. He knew how to herd the conversation to his own end-goals.

And Bull was _meticulous_. His lodgings were always shitty, the lowest of the low, trashed with wine bottles and stale with sex. But his packs, his leather satchels and saddlebags were beyond organized. The rambunctious mercenary captain Iron Bull lived like an animal, fucked and ate and fought like an animal. But the Qunari was a trained assassin. Dorian understood that the second he saw the letters, kept in pristine condition each with their own folder. His daggers, his poison supplies, his herbs all kept in small glass vials labeled in symbols Dorian had never seen before. And Dorian had studied _every major language_ , it was part of becoming a magister. What was it? Code?

Where had the Bull been, what tasks had he accomplished with mathematically accurate organization like that? Who was he, beyond the front he hid behind? Was he hiding? Bull wasn’t some case of double-agency, he didn’t flip between masks like a poor stage show. He was Bull, Iron Bull of the Chargers, but he was also this thing that served the Qun and lived a half-life of obedience and goals and accomplishments. Bull was a man Dorian could love, and a thing Dorian hated all at once.

“Uh...Dorian, right? Did you need the Chief or something--?”

Dorian stared blankly at Krem for nearly five seconds before his brain caught up to where he was standing--the walkway outside the Skyhold barracks--and realized that he might’ve been staring at nothing for some time. Maybe his thoughts were running a little rampant, admittedly, and his feet seemed to want to lead him to the one place he absolutely _didn’t want to be_.

“No!” Dorian cleared his throat, realized that was a little harsh, and laughed it off. “No, I’m perfectly fine. Although, if you’d be so kind to enlighten me as to your Chief’s whereabouts, I’d be much obliged.” Mostly so he could avoid Bull like the Blight, actually, but he wasn’t going to say that aloud.

Krem gave him a distinctly befuddled look. Did he know? Did _all_ the Chargers know? Oh, gods above. What if _everyone in Skyhold knew?_ Damn Cole and his blabber mouth. Damn Varric, too, because the dwarf heard that one thought Cole had so kindly broadcast, and now Dorian had no idea who he could trust. Varric could have told the whole Inquisition by now. But it was just sex, right? Just a one night stand. Dorian wasn't coming _back_ for that, that would be preposterous.

_It doesn't **mean** anything,_ he wanted to shout at Krem's confused stare. _Don't think about it, it's not like that._

This was so much more publicity than Dorian ever wanted. Yes, he liked being noticed, but as a mage. Not as the man sharing the Iron Bull’s bed.

“Well, he’s down at the training grounds,” Krem said. There was a hint of a grin on his face. “I’ll tell him you’re looking for him.”

“While I’m sure he--” Dorian’s eyes widened when he realized Krem was walking away. Why was he so far off his game today? He felt like he was thinking through a thick dish of liquid caramel, slugging his way to conclusions when he was usually so quick on his feet. “Wait--no that’s okay, I’ll just--”

Krem was gone, already half-way down the stairs to the lower courtyard. Evidently, he didn’t particularly care what else Dorian had to say. Dorian huffed, then promptly went to the bannister and looked over the edge. He could see the training grounds from where he stood, and sure enough, Bull was down there, swinging a sword around. Dorian watched--mildly horrified--as Krem crossed the courtyard, flagged Bull down, and said something well out of Dorian’s earshot. Bull turned, looked straight up at him, and gave him a lazy two-finger salute. The other five men--two Chargers, three soldiers--all stopped to give Dorian a wave, too.

At least that answered his questions about who exactly in Skyhold knew he was sleeping with Bull. _Everyone_ knew. Absolutely everyone.

Dorian slumped against the stone bannister. He didn’t really know what the next step was, after a few quick fucks. He’d never been in a situation where everyone seemed to _know_ \--and no one that mattered _cared_. So obviously, he rationalized, they _must_ care. People would always be people, throwing around their judgements and stereotypes and expectations. Dorian hadn’t heard anything yet, but that didn’t mean rumors weren’t being spread about them. This was his cue to run, get out of Skyhold before something awful happened.

The affair could mean the end of Dorian’s career in the Inquisitor’s inner circle, he knew this. And it could also mean something worse for Bull. Qunari couldn’t love, and he was a Ben-Hassrath agent. This wouldn’t end well. For either of them.

“So, you enjoying the view, or…?”

Dorian nearly jumped out of his skin. How long had he been thinking about the ramifications of just _running?_ Well, Bull was standing some dozen yards away, at the top of the stairs coming closer. At some point he had left the training area, crossed the courtyard and climbed the stairs up the ramparts. Dorian had missed the entire thing, too busy glaring at his own knuckles, as if that would help him make decisions about this.

Bull moved like a killer. He wasn’t the beast of burden Dorian wanted him to be, that would’ve made things simple. No, every little thing he did was measured, even the fumbles and the smacks on the back and the brawling with the soldiers. Even walking up the stairs was a showcase of his liquid power. His movements were all such fluid poetry, Dorian could watch him for hours--and that wasn’t even an exaggeration. And that’s what scared him, he thought. It wasn’t really the rumors, it was how much he cared that Bull would be in danger over this. It was all the little things Bull did, all his tiny mannerisms that Dorian loved to watch, loved to harass him for. That he just...loved.

“Something like that, yes,” Dorian said. His mouth ran on automatic. “Sometimes I come up here just on the off-chance that one day, someone will throw you in the dirt. That is a sight I cannot _afford_ to miss.”

Bull snorted. “You’re gonna be watching a damn long time for that one.”

“I can be patient.” It slipped before Dorian could stop himself.

The Iron Bull smiled, flashed his canines and slid back a step, to point at the line of doors behind him. One particular door, actually-- _his_ bedroom door. Dorian eyed the familiar entrance and wondered if this was really why he’d walked to this part of the ramparts in the first place. He hadn’t consciously thought that he’d come to see Bull, but now that he was here and Bull was inviting him in, he didn’t want to leave.

“What? What is that? Are you _insinuating_ something in broad daylight?” Dorian hissed. There was a painful number of eyes around and he had to at least try for appearances. He was going to ignore that anyone knew about this arrangement for as long as humanly possible.

Bull growled. “Am I supposed to believe you came up here for a midday _stroll?_ You never leave that library.”

“Point.” Dorian sighed. That really only left one option, the way Dorian saw it. He couldn’t deny Bull’s argument, meaning he’d actually come up here to see Bull.  And that meant one thing--

“Well. Get on with it,” he said. “ _Quickly_ , before anyone _notices_.”

Laughing, Bull led the way. He opened the door and let Dorian into his barracks. As soon as they were alone--door shut, locked, the world somewhere else--Bull shoved him into the wall and ravaged his mouth. His taste was becoming so familiar that it turned him on, something about the way Bull was learning all the small things he liked done to him. Bull’s fingers left his skin burning for more, his strength was overpowering. Dorian couldn’t get rid of his shirt fast enough.

Bull gathered up his wrists like they were nothing, pinned them against the wall above him with one hand. Then he slowed down. He pulled his mouth away, smirking, and ran his knuckles down the length of Dorian’s chest, starting up at his jaw to explore the contours of his bared skin. Dorian jerked his hands, realized it was a lost cause, and settled for glaring at him.

“Enjoying the view?” Dorian asked sarcastically.

Bull snorted. “We need to get you a gag. You talk too much.”

Dorian bristled. “You get those fingers anywhere _near_ my mouth and I will _bite them off_.”

“Oooh, fiesty,” Bull taunted. “You’ll need sharper teeth to get through Qunari bone, though.”

Bull unlaced Dorian’s pants with a single twisting motion of his forefinger, and while Dorian was busy marveling at how he did that so fast Bull switched up positions. He spun Dorian around with one massive hand on his shoulder, unrelenting, front-to-back-to-wall. Dorian stared at the stone wall while he played mental catch-up, realized this was exactly what he wanted.

That’s where Bull took him, in end. Right up against the wall.

 

\--

 

Bull slept like the dead. Silent, immobile. Dorian wondered if that was a battlefield thing, if something in that Qun upbringing had ingrained a death-like rest into him. It was unnatural, yet peaceful, and Dorian wondered--again--why he was still there. Witnessing this felt like he was tripping some unspoken boundary between them. Dorian had never stayed like this. He left when he woke up. That was the rule.

It was late, well past midnight. Dorian had woken to the sound of the single bell toll signaling ‘all’s well,’ and he’d been lying awake since. This was his second time laying in Bull’s bed that day, once in the afternoon and now again after dinner. Dorian didn’t know why. His feet carried him to Bull’s room like it was the end point of every possible trajectory he could feasibly take, like his own room didn’t even exist anymore.

Maybe it was because Bull was never surprised by it. He just accepted Dorian’s presence, like it was a natural thing. He’d come to Bull’s door after he’d eaten and it was unlocked, like every other night he’d come. Bull had put his axe down, and the whetstone he’d been sharpening it on, and looked at Dorian like he’d been waiting for him. What ever had taken him so long?

Dorian didn’t do this anymore. He didn’t stay with one guy, he didn’t risk the discovery. All of this was wrong. Staying was wrong, coming back was wrong.

Bull slept like the dead, and he wondered why. What scared him was that he wanted to know.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	2. An Early Breakfast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Dorian is afraid of feelings.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the long wait guys! Winter break is always super hectic for me. Hopefully I'll get back on schedule now.

When left to his own devices, Dorian enjoyed his sleep. Skyhold was frigid, all stone and mountain breezes, but his bed was at just the right angle to catch the early morning sunlight streaming in through the narrow window and it created this puddle of warmth that he just never wanted to leave. He dozed, read books, complained until the Bull went and got him breakfast, if the Bull was around. It was nice. The pleasant mornings in Skyhold certainly made up for all the trekking they did at the Inquisitor’s side, scaling mountains and drudging around in dreary caves.

It was because he loved his sleep that he was so very disappointed when he found himself staring at his bedchamber ceiling. It was barely dawn, an hour the Maker himself spit on, he was sure. And he had no idea _why_ he was awake.

A conversation threaded its way through his sleep-addled brain, unbidden and unwanted. A memory of looking the Inquisitor in the eye and trying--desperately--to explain what was going on. A question, a “so you and the Bull, huh?” and Dorian’s vague, “I have no idea what’s happening. Neither does the Bull.”

Did that still hold true now, he wondered?

He knew why he was awake. He was alone. And he was never alone this early.

Groaning, Dorian forced himself to sit up and studied his bedchamber groggily. Every book the Skyhold archives contained on ancient Tevinter were stacked haphazardly on his desk, a candle he’d burned down to a stub last night while he poured over those pages were beside them. The Bull’s pauldron was still on the floor where he’d thrown it last night, a quick move in the heat of the moment. That same heat had left Dorian with bruises the shape of the Bull’s fingers on his thighs.

The Bull’s armor was here. So why wasn’t the Bull?

Dorian got out from beneath his comforters, grumbling under his breath all the while. He wrapped himself in a thick robe that was far too big for him, got his slippers, and went on a hunt. It was too cold to not have something huge he could snuggle up with, and it was too early for Bull to have any excuse to be out of bed, as far as he was concerned. That Qun bullshit he did every morning could wait until a more decent hour.

Halfway down the stairs he ran into exactly the man he was looking for.

“Well you’re up early,” the Bull said.

Dorian stared blankly at the tray Bull was carrying. It looked like some pastries he’d filched from the kitchens, two mugs of something hot and a plate piled with sausages.

“Is that...breakfast?” Dorian asked, feeling just a little dumb for asking. _Clearly_ it was someone’s breakfast, but whose? Was the Bull actually bringing breakfast to his _room?_

The Bull snorted. “Maybe. It’ll be breakfast if you find us a spot to eat it.”

“You eat with the Chargers,” Dorian said. He felt defensive and he didn’t know why. “Why-?”

What he got was a firm hand on his ass turning him around and pushing him toward the stairs. The Bull was laughing at him, although _why_   was beyond him. That was a perfectly valid question, and it was simply a magister’s _nature_ to be curious. Certainly there was some ulterior motive here. Maybe the Bull was avoiding his men? That would explain the sudden surge of charity. A sheltered place to eat where no one would come looking for him, in exchange for food for two.

“Are you avoiding someone?” Dorian asked. He was walking up the stairs, Bull’s hand still on his ass, but he wasn’t going without some answers. “What did you _do?_ ”

The Bull humphed. “You interrogate everyone that decides to bring you breakfast in bed? I thought you Vints all loved getting pampered.”

“Well-- _yes_ when it’s a _servant_ , by the _Maker_ \--fine. I interrogate _you_ when _you_ bring me breakfast because you’re the _Iron Bull,_ ” he snapped.

Dorian was nose-to-nose with his own bedchamber door. Somehow the Bull had shepherded him up the length of the stairwell while he was busy getting riled over the food. But there was a familiarity to it, once he was letting the Bull into his chambers. It didn’t feel quite so foreign that the Qunari was prowling around like he owned the place. Dorian couldn’t force himself to get his back up about random acts of kindness when it was food for him.

“Just eat it,” the Bull said. He sounded exasperated but there was a teasing smirk somewhere beneath the scruff.

Dorian scoffed, but he took the tray out of the Bull’s hands anyway. If it was a gift--no strings attached--then what else could he do, but eat it? And he was famished. He perched on the edge of his writing desk and began inhaling the breakfast. At first he tried for a semblance of civility--until he remembered that this was the Bull and he had no one to impress.

It didn’t seem strange to Dorian that the Bull let himself into his bedchamber, or that he seemed to know where everything was already. The Bull was his regular fuck. Of course he was familiar with the layout of the room.

Dorian glanced at the Qunari over the rim of his porridge bowl. He watched the Bull pick up a pair of trousers off his floor--the were _undoubtedly_ the Bull’s, they were huge--and wondered why that seemed to normal. The Bull grunted happily, as if he’d been looking for those pants, and Dorian hadn’t even noticed their presence, and all of that combined into a startling vision of _domesticity_ to Dorian that he hadn’t expected.

The Bull...brought him food. And left his clothes here. And just let himself in and out of his rooms because _that was okay_. This wasn’t just an overnight fuck, was it?

“What’s that look for?” the Bull asked when he caught Dorian staring.

Flustered, strangely happy, Dorian set his breakfast down and gestured at the Bull. “Come here.”

The Bull complied. He laid the spare pants down on the bed, moved around the furniture and stopped only when he was well within Dorian’s personal space. The longer Dorian was with him--both in general and in this slow morning moment--the Bull’s size seemed less and less of an issue. He wasn’t intimidating anymore, and he moved with such a latent grace that it hardly seemed an issue at all. He was just...the Bull. Dorian would never have seen himself being this okay with the whole thing. But he’d seen the Bull beneath his mercenary armor and he knew there were very few people who had seen that, too.

Dorian reached up, grabbed the Bull by one horn and pulled him down into a kiss. It was a sweet thing with a latent heat. Dorian savored it.

Then--almost by instinct--he gave the Bull’s horns a few experimental scratches right at the base, where his skin gave way to the cuticle of his horn. He didn’t know what he was expecting, but it _definitely_ wasn’t the immediate rumble emanating from the Bull’s broad chest.

Dorian choked and pulled out of the kiss. “Dear Maker--is that _purring?”_

The initial confusion on the Bull’s face was enough to tell Dorian that it was not a conscious thing. As soon as he was aware of it, the Bull stopped rumbling. He cleared his throat and avoided Dorian’s smirk. Was he _embarrassed?_

“Uh...Qunari have those...folds. I don’t know, the tamassrans have a name for them. I don’t know what they’re called in common. Haven’t you heard the Tal-Vashoth _roar_ when they go to battle?” he asked. He was hedging.

“Laryngeal folds? Like cats?” Dorian asked. He smiled wider, a kid given a particularly interesting toy for Wintershend. “So you _can_ purr.”

“They train it out of us, usually. It separates us from the animals,” the Bull said. “But, uh...I’ve always been pretty bad with the horns.”

Dorian chuckled. “That’s adorable. Who knew the great nation of the Qunari was made up of a bunch of kittens?”

“Shhh, can’t have them know I’m giving away state secrets,” the Bull chastised him. He was grinning.

Laughing, Dorian leaned up and kissed him again. And he wondered what this was, this feeling. What this queer combination of domestic familiarity, of long nights in bed and quiet mornings discussing state secrets meant for him. For this...thing...he had with the Bull.

He was almost afraid of the answer.


	3. Little Chameleon Boy

Being loud and colorful was a strategy. It was a finely tuned procedure, a series of calculations based on the people around him, and on whose approval his fate rested on that particular day. Dorian made it his own--began living the lie--years ago, when earning the title “Magister” meant being _more_ than a hundred other boys his age, and it continued to serve him into his 40s following a Rift-touched man calling himself Inquisitor. Changing colors meant more than swapping out masks and mannerisms and loyalties. Camouflage was an art of observation. Dorian had achieved greatness with his wits, and with knowing how to pick up on the tiny things.

Tiny things like when his companions broke their fast. Which of them was prone to sneaking into the kitchens early, having a charming conversation with the cook then wandering off to eat in self-imposed solitude. Blackwall, Cassandra, Solas. Dorian would count them as the early morning hours ticked by, on those cold mornings when he couldn’t seem to get much more than a shallow catnap in before the frozen wind made him move around to keep his bones from frosting over. He wrapped himself up and he watched the small group of people Adaar called his “inner circle” from the library’s second story windows. He could see the entrance of the main hall, he could see who came and went.

Dorian did not trust them. But he knew them all intimately. It made finding a particular person--and catching that person _alone_ \--that much easier, amongst other things. Dorian liked knowing what made his company tick.

Breakfast came, the long tables in the main hall were stocked with biscuits and toast and pastries, platters of fried sausage and ham roasted in honey. The dignitaries and upper crust guests, Vivienne amongst them, filtered down and ate like birds, standing and chirping at each other. The Orlesian game played out in miniature for an hour and a half. After the most colorful peacocks had retired, the officers swept through. Cullen and his men, Krem and two of the Chargers to carry out whatever platters they could get away with.

Sera would eat come lunch, Dorian knew that much. There was a span for about fifteen minutes when the only people of note in the main hall was the lone sole that liked squeezing in a breakfast, a leisurely chat and mid-morning tea all into the same sitting.

Dorian padded down the stairs, slid through an empty corridor and lingered in the wide archway of the hall. He eyed his quarry for a moment, studying his prey before his presence was noted. Varric sat alone with a mug of something hot and what looked like a manuscript spread out on the table in front of him. He frowned every time he made a correction, grunted and scribbled and continued on.

This was ridiculous, Dorian knew that. He knew better than to be getting other people involved, and Varric had the loosest tongue of them all. Everyone in _Skyhold_ would know after this--if they didn’t already. And that was the opposite of what he wanted, that stood in the face of all the caution, all the late nights and silent walks back to his rooms before anyone could see.

Dorian sat down across from Varric before he could lose the nerve. He wanted to do this. He did. This was important, this idea that he'd been nursing for the past fortnight. And if he didn't do it now, he'd be a coward forever.

“Hey, sparky,” Varric grunted without looking up. “Aren’t you joining civilization a little early?”

It was a loud and vibrant character trait that Dorian slept until noon. He would moan and bitch and keep his claws out if he was dragged out of his beauty rest too early. He made it so visible that _everyone_ knew it, and so no one questioned it. Dorian let the barb slide by, because he liked it when no one expected his presence until after lunch. Even if the “beauty sleep” bit was mostly a lie.

“Only for good reason, I assure you,” Dorian said. He leaned his chin on one palm and watched Varric out of his sleep-lidded eyes. His exhaustion wasn’t an act, at least. “I have a job for you. A commission for your...smuggling expertise, let’s say.”

Varric nearly choked on his tea. “Look, sparky. I _like_ you, don’t go dabblin’ in that shit, it won’t make you any stronger--”

“ _No_.” Dorian waved his hand as if to get rid of a bad smell. “Not _lyrium_ , I just need you to _smuggle_ something for me.”

“For the love of--try _leading_ with your illegals next time,” Varric grumbled into his mug. He straightened out the papers of his manuscript. Dorian pegged it as a nervous gesture.

Dorian flashed a content little smile, a look that had all the confidence he didn’t feel. “So that’s a yes?”

“What exactly do you need me to get?” A seasoned merchant on the black market wasn’t so easily duped into a job. There was a smile somewhere in the way Varric cradled his mug and watched. He was good-natured in that big brother kind of way, and Dorian wasn’t sure how he felt about that familiarity yet.

The moment of truth. Dorian began listing the excuses he could use to run--this was easy enough to dodge out of. “Ah…well, I’m not sure of the _name_ , so...”

He was on his feet, then, and he didn’t know how he got there. _You’re running again, you imbecile,_ his thoughts whispered. Moving on well-oiled instinct, his hand shot out to catch the chair as it fell out from under him--he stood too fast, he had to leave--

\--and his hand collided with something warm, with skin and flesh and a bass thick laugh.

Dorian whipped around and there was a chest six inches from his nose. He craned his neck and made stunned--horrified--eye contact with the Bull. Who was holding his chair in one hand, who had caught it, _who had been standing there the whole time?_

“By the _Maker_ , did you _bathe?”_ Dorian snapped.

The Bull frowned and sniffed himself. “What? Why?”

Furious for a tangled mess of reasons, Dorian stalked around the Bull. He put that mass of useless muscle between himself and Varric’s too-curious stare, suddenly afraid that the dwarf could see straight through him.

“I didn’t _smell_ you from the blighted training grounds,” he said. “What are you doing in here? Don’t you have straw men to throw pointy sticks at?”

“Someone’s cranky.” The Bull set the chair down properly, crossed his arms over his barrel-wide chest and regarded him. “What’s the matter, Vint, didn’t sleep well?” he asked in that deep rumbling way he had about him. “I can help you with that.”

Dorian hissed and spun away. It was all posturing and faked insult, and Dorian didn’t pretend for a second that either of them were fooled by it. Not even Varric. It was all part of Dorian’s strategic retreat, his tried and true catch-all to cover his own tail. He stalked off, dodged out of the hall and into the corridor to the library. His safe zone--from the Bull, anyway.

Somewhere up the stairs, in the maze of shelves and dust and book spines labeled in dead languages, Dorian found a safe nook and breathed himself into some state of together. He was mortified every time the Bull hinted at it, he didn’t want that shit out in the open--

But Varric knew, he _knew_ , and Dorian...liked that thought?

For the love of the Maker, it was just...messy. And the longer he tried to leave it alone, the messier it got. What happened when the others knew? Those other “companions” that Dorian had spent this whole Inquisition studying, adapting to, figuring out. _Everyone hates a faggot on the inside_ , his own survival instinct whispered to him. _It’s just human nature._

Varric wasn’t human, though. What did that mean, for Dorian’s self-defeatist theory?

And the Bull--? He was…

The Bull was something else.

Dorian spent the long hours of the afternoon desperately throwing himself against the library’s collection of Tevinter-related archives, sorting and skimming and searching for information that would justify why he spent the entire day amongst those shelves. He wasn’t hiding, he told himself. He was trying to identify the enemy that had declared himself leader of the Venatori. There was information to be reaped, missing links to discover. He didn’t have time to bribe Varric into fetching an item from half a world away based on some feel-good whim he’d had in bed two days ago.

He wasn’t hiding. Not even when he skipped dinner, and the rest of the scholars and mages that inhabited the library had long retired to their rooms. He was working. This wasn’t hiding.

 

xxxx

  
  


Dorian woke to the Bull’s gentle touch on his bicep. It took him a full five seconds of groggy nudges to realize that this was not the correct setting for that, for _touching_. He was in the library, _in public_ , and the Bull didn’t come into the library. That was a rule. Dorian had watched the Bull suspiciously since they’d arrived at Skyhold and he _never_ came into the library.

His eyes went to the window when he realized he couldn’t see anyone else in the immediate area. The sky outside the window was dark. _Past dinner. Past any decent hour,_ his internal clock whispered. He’d fallen asleep in the library and he’d been content to just get his full night’s rest right in the armchair.

“Good morning, Princess,” the Bull said.

“Don’t _touch_ me, maker,” Dorian hissed. “Keep your _voice_ down--what time is it?”

The Bull cocked his head to the side. “Almost second watch. Half past midnight, probably.”

He stilled for a moment. Dorian could hear armored footfalls some place far below the shuttered library window. A patrol marched by on the ramparts, their rhythmic footfalls like the heartbeat of the hold. One of the first things Dorian had done was get a schedule of the guard changes from Cullen’s office, if only to know what time of day it was based on where the patrols were. The Bull, evidently, had done the same.

“...What are you doing here?” Dorian asked eventually. He sounded more defeated than he would’ve liked.

The Bull grunted. “Came to find you, mostly. Waited to see if you’d come join me, then came here when I got bored.”

“Do you have to say it so loud?” he asked.

“We’re alone, Dorian. The closest living body is the guard sleeping in the hall.” The Bull sat beside Dorian’s armchair. He was huge and the chair was too small for him to do anything but sit with his elbow on his knee, but he still looked utterly at ease. There was a warm grace about him that Dorian could get lost in. “What’s so bad if they knew?”

The Bull went right for the kill shot, he didn’t pander around and pretend he didn’t know what was wrong. Dorian winced inwardly, tried to cover it up and stared out the window when he realized he couldn’t smooth his expression back out to neutral.

“What if they hate us?” Dorian asked.

“You know they won’t.”

“But what if they do?” He slammed his fist against the armrest, half-hearted and bitter and paranoid. “You don’t know. I don’t know. We think we know, but that doesn’t mean anything. This can all turn to _shit_ so quickly--don’t you care about that?”

The Bull moved, and he was such a huge guy that Dorian always felt intimidated by him when he came closer, but not tonight. The Bull moved and Dorian wanted him closer. He realized the Bull was kneeling in front of him instead of sitting beside him and there was barely a hand’s breadth of cold Skyhold air between them. They made eye contact. Dorian didn’t have anywhere else to run.

“Two hundred soldiers used to depend on my ability to know that,” the Bull said flatly. “They lived because I am not wrong. I am not wrong, Dorian. They will not hate you, or me, or both of us, if they know you sleep with me. Nothing will change, but you will be able to sleep at night, and we don’t have to sneak around like rats. Sounds like a win-win to me.”

He made sense and that’s why Dorian wanted to punch him. He also wanted to kiss him, and to tell him to get out of the fucking library, and he wanted to tell him to come to bed. It was confusing and messy, but the Bull made sense. Like a fucking maker-proven truth in the cosmos.

They kissed. Dorian didn’t know who started it, but he knew he wanted to continue it. Bull was a very present, very real warmth and he tasted like ale and dark places. Dorian wanted him like he hadn’t wanted a man in a long, long time.

“My rooms,” he said against the stubble of Bull’s jaw. “Right now.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am a terribly unpredictable writer and I made you all wait months for this. I am so sorry.
> 
> In other news, next chapter is segmented off because I wanted to keep the NC-17 stuff easy to navigate around for the readers that don't enjoy a little erotica in their romances. So there's that to look forward to. Wink.


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